Happy Holidays, morgynleri_fic!
Title: Lumens (2/2)
Author: On the Qui Vive
Real Author Name: mackiedockie
Written for: morgynleri_fic
Crossover: Highlander, Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Joe Dawson, Ian Bancroft, Darius, Rebecca, Marcus Constantine, Silas, the Family Granger
Rating: Gen
Author's Notes: A slightly altered reality, set mostly in the past. Highlander veers, just a bit, into the Potterverse. Overlapping dates scrounged from various wikis around the net, with dubious accuracy. All malfeasances in text and manglings in non-English languages are mine. My beta deserves combat pay, and consideration for the Watcher version of the Croix de Guerre.
Summary: Darius and Joe Dawson weren’t precisely strangers, though they each took great pains to never precisely meet. Still, both had a weakness for books, and Shakespeare and Company lay just a short jaunt around the corner from the church. Friends will visit. Accidents will happen. And Darius had a reputation for making chess moves far more than one step ahead of the Game.
Part One
1979
“Did you bring pizza?” Ian demanded as he let Joe into his private sanctum overlooking Darius’ church, an unheated apartment that was miserable in winter, boiling in summer, but unmatched for range of view, particularly in autumn as the leaves fell, as they did now.
“Chicago-style it’s not, but it resembles pizza in it’s own Gallic way,” Joe wiped his feet as he entered Ian’s garret. “I’ve cleaned up the Indian and gotten it serviced. It’s put away for the winter in your storage locker.” Joe said quietly and handed over the keys. “How is Sarah? She seemed a little reserved at Don’s meeting the other night.”
“Sarah is fine. She’s a little worried about you, though, Joe.” Leaves rustled against the window sill. “I was sorry to hear the news about Liza Grant’s beheading,” Ian commiserated, getting straight to the point and pouring the good Scotch for a farewell toast.
Joe slumped in the armchair next to the window that overlooked the church. “It’s not like she was my girlfriend, right? Or even an acquaintance. Hell, she wasn’t even a nice lady.”
“I find there is something intimate in creating a chronicle over time,” Ian answered. “It binds us to our subjects.”
“It’s such a waste, you know? They live all that time, and so many of them seem to just...lose the point. It’s contagious.” Joe gestured out the window. “Sin or not, I envy you, watching Darius. Look at him, down there. Sermons, counseling, and today he’s doing a christening. He has purpose, you know? Taking people in, helping them out, maybe making them a little stronger and better inside.”
“Were you sneaking into some of his sermons when I wasn’t looking?” Ian asked. “You do need a girlfriend.”
“Just stealing lines from your book to put a little sunshine into your day.”
“Maybe I can brighten your day as well, Joe. Happy anniversary--it’s been ten years today since you walked out of the Marines and took my tale of a future in the Watchers on faith.” Ian handed Joe a wrapped present, about the length, width, and thickness of a book.
Joe inspected the present with a wary smile. “I was in dire need a job at the time. You were honest about the pittance, though. Thank God I finally paid off my part of the damage fee for the lab. Maybe now I can afford a girlfriend.”
“You fail to pull the wool over my eyes, apprentice mine. I’ve seen your expense reports from the Rue St. Denis.”
“I told you Liza Grant wasn’t a nice lady.” Joe’s innocent expression failed to convince. “Madame DeBarge sends her respects, by the way.”
“Touché.” Ian warmed a cockle or two on the memory of his own tutelage under Madame DeBarge. “Now. On to the business at hand. Open your anniversary present.”
Joe sat up and ripped into the paper. “A book! Quelle surprise!” Then he peered at the cover more closely, and leafed to a much-thumbed chapter with a nostalgic sigh. “Not just a book…the book -- Duncan MacLeod’s first grand tour of Europe.”
“Bit of a high-strung clotheshorse, to my tastes, but he sometimes impresses the colonials,” Ian affected disdain, just to needle Joe. “Darius likes him. Probably because he’s so easy to beat at chess.”
“According to this Watcher, Duncan prefers to fight his own duels rather than send out knights to fight for him,” Joe parried. “And that’s a primary resource.”
“Which accounts for his painful need for chess lessons,” Ian countered, glad to see his former student shed some of his blue mood. “Still, his early chronicle is a more pleasant tale than the sad resolution of Liza Grant’s tale.”
Joe looked up from the book. “Thanks for the reminder, that they aren’t all on a downward spiral. I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself,” he said, turning the pages with ingrained care. “I loved reading about this guy Duncan.”
“That’s good. Because he’s in town. And more to the point, because now he’s all yours.” Ian picked up the backpack full of books and dropped it next to the armchair. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted. You’re now a fully rated Senior Watcher and Chronicle Keeper. Duncan MacLeod’s day-to-day Watchers now report to you.”
“Damn. Now I’m going to have to straighten up and fly right,” Joe said, elated, clearly intending to do neither in the immediate future as he got up to pour another round. “Does this mean I get to find an apprentice, too? My own minion?”
“Heaven help the Watchers, but yes. It’s expected.” Ian struck a match and lit a taper out of habit as darkness fell and their celebration progressed The low candlelight didn’t interfere with his nightly observations, and drew less attention to the window.
“Who have you picked for your next apprentice?” Joe asked as he picked through the album collection and took command of the turntable. Ian appropriated his chair by the window so he could follow the comings and goings below as they talked. “The matter has been decided for me. Sarah is pregnant. I have fulfilled the family duty,” Ian laughed as he endured Joe’s unfettered congratulations, and redoubled toasts.
As their private celebration wound on, Ian still glanced out the window, out of incorruptible habit. The christening was over, and the happy parents were pausing to say their farewells to Darius and the attendees. Ian was shocked to see Marcus Constantine and Rebecca lingering on the stair. He’d nearly missed them!
At that moment, Rebecca and Marcus both looked up, staring directly at his garret window. Ian resisted the urge to duck. It was too dark in the room for them to possibly see his face or form. As Joe changed albums, Ian reached for his own rough notes on the church daily docket. Three Immortals gathered over one small child--Granger. It must be a very special christening, indeed. He’d have to note down the name for future research. Before he could make the entry, Joe handed him his glass, and he put down his pen, closing the notebook.
For the briefest moment, he tasted honey mead.
1992
It was a sultry spring vacation day in Paris when Hermione slipped away from her parents to visit a bookstore. At the age of twelve (going on thirteen!) she felt fully confident in navigating the Left Bank alone, even without magic.
The Grangers had gone on to visit their friend Darius at his church, just around the corner on the Rue Galande, and Hermione had promised to meet them in an hour. Old churches could be quite fine, in their way, but a bookstore was a bookstore, and almost as good as a proper library. Besides, she’d already read most of Darius’ tiny library the previous summer vacation. And she had never acquired a taste for his tea. It reminded her of a bad day at Potions class.
Hermione had assigned herself a summer project--searching muggle bookstores for lost magical treatises that might augment the Defense Against Dark Arts reading list. While the manager at Flourish and Botts in Diagon Alley had been less than optimistic that good bookstores existed in France, Mr. Winstanley at Winstanley’s Books and Stationery had especially recommended she stop at Shakespeare and Company.
And stop she did, gaping at the shelves that surrounded the entry. Books jubilantly tumbled on tables, escaping the bonds of mere alphabetism or Deweyosity. Books filled the window and fled out the door, tempting any impressionable and sensitive bibliophiles who had the luck to walk by. Shakespeare and Company promised to be a wonderful place to browse, even better, dowse, for strayed spell books.
She silenced the bell over the door with a word, and slipped through into the stacks. The bookstore clerk was in the back, busy fussing over one of the new CRT screens. They were almost like magic, some of those new computers. Hermione had heard they even communicated with each other over the telephone. That would be faster than owls, if not as secure. Not that they’d be allowed at Hogwarts. Magic was far more reliable.
Hermione pulled out her booklist, ruminating as she surreptitiously drew her wand. Would a simple keyword search suffice? Or would Boolean logic be more precise? Deciding on a title search to start, Hermione faced the store and said clearly, “Accio: 'Olde Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes… ”
There was a rumble from every corner of the store, and a shout, and a veritable bookalanche of volumes, tomes and folios risked damaging themselves in a fight to hover around her. Hermione was horrified. She’d never had such a response in a muggle bookshop. She glanced back at her list. “Oh, no...the quote is unclosed...” She’d inadvertently dowsed and drawn every book with ‘Bewitchments’ and ‘Charmes’ in their known text.
One book in particular nudged her hand like a found puppy--the age-darkened leather practically preened under her hand, and the leaves of the pages flipped back and forth to numerous examples of ‘Bezaubern’ and various declensions of ‘Vergessen’ and ‘Oblivio’.
“Oh, dear. You’re in German. And Latin.” Muggle Latin, not magical Latin. That meant more study. Quickly she pocketed the find and grounded the floating stock--just in time, as the shopkeeper was making his way out of the back, carefully limping through the scattered books like a scarred battleship through a flotilla of fluttering sailboats. His coat was not quite professorial, and not really businesslike. His dark hair and beard were streaked with grey, and strands fell down over his eyebrows when he dipped his head to stare down at her.
“It looks like a tornado ripped through here,” he said, leaning on his (nonmagical) cane, taking in the full effect before settling his whole attention upon her. “But I know that can’t be the case.” The clerk waited, his entire attention on her.
“Was that an earthquake?” she asked, intending to steer the conversation in any direction but the truth.
“Unlikely. Or the bell over the door would have rung,” the clerk observed. And waited. He evinced a certain amused and patient expectancy. “Perhaps…” he finally offered, almost as a lifeline, “...perhaps a shelf gave way, and the rest just fell like dominoes. I’m Joe, by the way.”
“Granger. Hermione Granger, sir,” she corrected. Hogwarts had left its stamp on her manners when addressing older academics. Hermione’s hand almost disappeared within his cupped palm, which was nearly as callused as Hagrid’s. “Let me help you put them back,” Hermione hurried to straighten the books, soon creating a series of neat piles around the table near the entrance. “Do you want them in any particular order?” she asked helpfully.
“I suspect some of them haven’t been in any particular order since the late Middle Ages,” Joe admitted. While they worked he pointed out particular favorites, and even made her laugh by pointing out some favorite passages from authors ranging from Herodotus to Abby Hoffman, and adding what must have been some outrageous fabrications of his own.
As she chased down the last upended volumes, he scrutinizing her groupings, and said, “This will do very well. I don’t think Don will notice a thing. Thank you for your help--bending isn’t my strong suit.”
“But you do better reaching the high shelves,” she acknowledged. Hermione had refrained from levitating books behind Joe’s back.
“You’ve got sharp eye for nesting the right books together, Hermione Granger. Let me know, if you ever need a job after you graduate.” He shook her hand with grave and gentle courtesy, then turned his attention to the piles of books again.
“There is a particular book I don’t see…” he said, and Hermione caught a note of concern. “It’s old. There’s an emblem stamped on the cover, that looks a little like this--” Joe rolled up his right sleeve, exposing a dark three-lobed tattoo.
“That must have been painful,” she said, studying the mark with fascination and trepidation. Hermione didn’t recognize the symbol from her rune studies, but it still burned a hole in her conscience, as it most certainly matched the mark on the cover of the book in her pocket.
“It’ll be in the back, no doubt,” Joe concluded, somewhat nettled. “I think you understand about books. Sometimes they get a hold on you, and you can’t let them go. Even though you know you should pass them on.”
Hermione understood about books very well. She was acutely conscious of the weight of the book tugging at her jacket and under her breath she muttered a minor spell of concealment. She itched to explore the book, but she couldn’t just walk out with it. That would be stealing.
Borrowing, on the other hand…she could always mail it back, anonymously. Like interlibrary loan. Gryffindor needed all the help they could get to get better grades on the Defense Against Dark Arts O.W.L. ”I have a friend who would like this store, quite a bit. Do you have a business card, Mr. …?”
“Dawson. Just call me Joe,” he insisted. “I’m just watching the place for a friend. I work in the other branch across the pond, as my friend Ian likes to say.” He handed her a card from the register that listed addresses in Paris and Seacouver. “Speaking of whom, if you have more questions, Ian and Don are coming down the street right now.” He held his finger to his lips and winked. “If you don’t tell him about the earthquake, I won’t mention the tornado. Thanks for your help.”
There was a sudden commotion as the bell rang loudly, heralding the entry of two cheerful men who looked even older and grayer than Joe, followed by a deferential younger man with dark hair and sharp eyes.
“Joe! Wait ‘til you get a look at the new chronicle Adam found! Methos is confirmed in Green River Washington, in the 1890’s!”
“Wyoming,” the young man objected, his eyes lighting on Hermione.
Joe made a cutting motion with his hand, rather like conductor halting a trio in mid chorus, and silence fell. “Hermione? This is the owner, Don Salzer. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around some other time. I hate to insult you by asking, but are your parents nearby? We have to close early for a business meeting.”
“They’re just around the corner at the Church, and I’m late, I should be going, thank you very much, Mr. Dawson, it was very nice to meet you…” Hermione babbled as she danced past the adults and out into the freedom of the street. She thought she felt the eyes of the youngest man following her all the way down the block, and had the strangest notion she had had a very close call.
Despite Hermione’s plan to return the book before it was missed, she felt bad about taking advantage of the co-proprietor. She made her way back to the church as fast as she could. Maybe she could puzzle out what she needed from the book, or the book needed from her, before her parents were done.
In fact, Darius might help her with the old fashioned text, too, before they had to leave. His library, though small, was quite old and eclectic, rather like Shakespeare’s. And in fact, he did seem quite delighted by her find, and had a tendency to nab it for himself at every opportunity during their stay.
Darius and Joe would probably get along just fine, she decided. Or they should. They were very much alike, cloistered in their lairs, showing off their treasures. She remembered that the old priest had let her look at the illuminations in his own collection when she was just a little girl, barely able to distinguish ancient calligraphy from ants.
It wasn’t until Hermione was well on her way to the French Alps with her parents when she realized the book was still sitting in Darius’ desk. Or on his shelf. Or had he been reading it near the chess set? Appalled at her forgetfulness, she dashed off a note explaining her mistake, and taking full responsibility, with the sincere hope it wouldn’t be too much of an annoyance to somehow find a way to put the book back where Joe might find it.
Hermione had faith he would take good care of it.
Darius, too, understood about books.
1993
The services for Rebecca at Darius’ church were attended by more Immortals than Paris had ever seen peacefully gathered in one place in recorded Watcher history. Joe had spent days in the Paris Archive, verifying (and covering up) the facts around her life, death and crystallomantic powers.
Marcus Constantine marshalled the orators as they arrived, and Amanda greeted the mourners, dressed in plain black, accented only by a single white stone pendant in honor of her teacher. Blades were not checked at the door, but all remained sheathed on the holy ground of the inner precinct. Seating arrangements were made with delicate diplomacy.
Watchers flocked from garret to gutter around Darius’ old church, though Ian Bancroft alone had official permission to step inside, a legacy of his decades watching the deceased priest. Since Rebecca’s watcher was also dead, slain by Luther before the duel, Ian had summoned Joe Dawson to accompany him, in no little part because he was the least likely Watcher to be assassinated by the principal mourners, given recent misunderstandings with Horton’s splinter sect.
Joe and Ian took their usual seats (in the shadows, in the back). Ian sat straight and silent, enduring, but no longer Joe’s touchstone for optimism and hope. Despite the crowd, the Immortals left a shell of empty chairs around the Watchers, isolating them from their shared grief. And so, there was still room next to Joe when a latecomer arrived and slipped into the last row.
Hermione was ruffled, and tear-stained, and still in fresh upset, as if she had only just heard the news. “Is it true, Mr. Dawson?” she asked, stricken. “Darius and Rebecca, both?” She did not ask who, or why, or how.
Joe reached out and gingerly drew her in. “I’m sorry, Hermione. It’s true. Best to listen, now, and celebrate her life.”
“Every summer--the two of them taught me so much. But there was so much more! And now it’s lost!”
Ian roused, catching Joe’s eye. They were attracting attention.
“Hush, and listen. Later, we’ll light them both a candle. And then we’ll go on.”
1996
Joe's cane snapped down on the uneven sidewalk. He was moving as fast as he ever did--which was not very fast, by any standards but his own. He’d been left behind, time after time, covertly chasing MacLeod and Cassandra across France. He’d even resorted to his least favorite (but most effective) disguise as an itinerant street performer (beat up guitar, bucket hat and all.) He’d even resurrected Ian’s old mothballed Indian sidecar to catch up on the roads, but on foot, he was still one step behind.
Swords clanged in the distance. Looking ahead towards the Bordeaux bridge where MacLeod was overmatched with Silas and Caspian, Joe didn't see an uneven cobble. Walking, that was slow. Falling, that was fast. Getting up, that was...problematic. He could hear swords clashing in the night over the water, and Silas, bellowing.
Joe combat crawled toward the wall that lined the river, and clawed his way up the parapet. A quickening knifed through the shadows of the night. Huge. Powerful. Strong enough to melt the cables on the bridge. Every street fixture within two blocks was sucked lightless.
And in the dark, in the ditch, he couldn’t see who won.
“Shitfire!” Even as he pulled himself erect, he caught a glimpse of a body falling from the bridge against the evil fireworks the quickening still spat. Dark hair. Dark clothes. MacLeod? Or Caspian? The quickening still snapped over the bridge, dire, ugly bolts that searched aimlessly for prey, It was not the wild, clean midnight lightning that Joe had seen struggling in Duncan’s soul for so many years.
On that intuitive wisp, more wish than evidence, Joe felt a spark of hope bloom in his heart. He searched the black waters below for a body, and was rewarded when a dark, sodden lump bumped against a small dock downstream. Silas bellowed again from the bridge, seeking revenge.
“Dammit, Mac. I wrote the last page in your chronicle once. I’m not doing it again,” Joe vowed. He let loose a few more Marine-grade epithets for extra punctuation, salting in gutter French to hang on to the shreds of his cover. Sadly, there was no one around to appreciate his savoir faire. Ian would have applauded.
“Then again, who’s fool enough to be running around in the middle of the night, watching your back?” Joe asked the wind. No one would have blamed him if he gave up field work, and quite a few who would cheer if he retired. Again. Inexplicably, many Watchers had foolishly envied the the empty prestige of watching MacLeod. Most were useless, too timid and traditional. Or too courageous. And dead.
Silas howled, marching downstream, now. The track he was taking on the riverwalk would lead right to MacLeod. Joe faced the path to the bridge, instinctively checking the load in his automatic.
The odds were that Duncan’s healing was kicking in, even now, despite the body being ungodly cold and wet. Joe didn’t want to think about his frame of mind after taking even a part of Caspian’s quickening. But given enough time to heal, Duncan would pull himself out and get away. Joe just had to do one thing to ensure his escape. Stall, for just a few precious minutes, the avatar of War, who had reliably been renouned during the Russian revolution for eating bullets for his continental breakfast.
“You and Jimi had it right, Ian. A man has to stick to his own standards. ’If six was nine.’,” he quoted, in backward apology to his mentor.
“If that is a spell, it isn’t working very well,” a woman’s voice floated from the deeper shadows across the avenue. “Lumos.”
A blue light appeared in the heart of the alley, and floated forward. Joe discerned a woman’s shape, and heard soft footsteps. “Cassandra?” he guessed, cautiously. They hadn’t parted friends, and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t meet again as foes. Getting caught between Silas and Cassandra wouldn’t look good on his resume. Or his tombstone.
“Um, no. Hermione. Hermione Granger. Rebecca told me that Cassandra had documentation issues in Prophecies and Portents, and that her scholarship was inconsistent. I normally try to avoid her. It’s really not my best subject.”
Taken aback, Joe observed the obvious. “You’re a lot taller than the last time we talked.”
Hermione lowered her light and came closer, peering at his mud streaked coat. “Mr. Dawson, are you all right?”
“What on earth are you doing here, Hermione?” Joe demanded, lowering the gun and slipping it into his pocket, a bit embarrassed at brandishing it about in front of a teenager.
“Looking for you. Shakespeare and Company was closed. That’s just wrong, you know.”
“There’s lots wrong in the world, Hermione. And we’re right in the middle of one of the biggest steaming piles of wrong you’ve ever seen. You need to get out of here.”
Hermione looked toward the bridge, making an impatient motion. Coincidentally, Silas dropped his ax and stumbled, landing in a pool of cold water. He sat there for rather longer than looked comfortable, with a puzzled expression on his face.
Hermione folded her arms and turned to Joe. “Adam was quite unhelpful in answering my questions. He sent me to find you.”
“Where did you see Adam?” Joe checked the alley behind Hermione, but Methos, for better or worse, did not appear. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for weeks. He’s running in very bad company. Don’t tell me you just run into him on the street?”
“Let’s just say I have a knack.” Hermione looked beyond Joe’s shoulder to the bridge, but Silas still appeared to be having difficulty in grasping his ax. “Listen, Joe, do you remember when you said you might have a job for me when I got out of school?”
‘I do remember, but If my count is right, you’re still a year away from graduating,” Joe objected, wondering about the surreal turn in the conversation, considering the distant but ominous sound of hobnailed boots sparking on cobbles as Silas kicked the street in frustration. “Are you all right? At the risk of sounding like a creepy old man, I can spot you some money to get home, if you’re short.”
He really wanted to ask, ‘What are you doing on the streets at night, alone? Do your parents know where you are?’ but something in her expression kept him from prodding.
“I don’t need money. I just needed to find you, and ask a favor.” Hermione nodded toward Silas, understandably distracted as Silas shed whatever clumsiness had come over him and triumphantly hoisted his weapon. “Adam also said to tell you the neighborhood was a very bad place to be caught sightseeing, and you should get out of here, fast.”
It was amazing how Methos could be so annoyingly correct without even deigning to show up. Unfortunately, Joe was a few steps too far away from his own transportation to make a clean getaway, and he now had Hermione to worry about. “I need to have a short conversation with this kindly gentleman approaching,” Joe said, checking his other pocket (the one without the gun) for a set of keys.
“That strikes me as counterproductive,” Hermione said, matching Joe’s tone. “He doesn’t look very kindly to me. Though looks can be deceiving. You look like a moon-touched busker in that hat.”
“Then I haven’t lost my sartorial touch.” Joe tossed her the keys. “I’ve got an old three-wheeled conveyance just inside the alley. It would make me happy if you warmed it up for a spin.”
“And what are you planning on doing, Joe?” Hermione asked, giving a disapproving glance toward the ax-wielding marauder. He was quite recovered from his fall and resuming his march downstream.
Joe considered his options. A quick glance downriver told him MacLeod was still just pulling himself out of the freezing water. There was no guarantee he still had a sword.
“Maybe it’s time to make love, not war,” Joe muttered.
“Do you always talk to yourself in a crisis?” Hermione tapped her foot.
Joe’s most ferocious scowl bounced, leaving her undaunted. He summoned his Marine voice, nodding toward the alley. “My friend down there needs a little help out of the river. I can’t manage the climb,” Joe lied, mostly. “Now scoot!”
“But how will you return the favor if you’re killed dead?” Hermione’s question was not rhetorical.
“Improvise. And prioritize. If you get him up the stairs, stuff him headfirst into that sidecar, and get him out of here, I’ll owe you anything I have. Anything you want.”
“Anything? Very well. I want a book. I’ll tell you later which one. Do not get killed, or I’ll summon your ghost.” Hermione put her hands on her hips, fuming, then stalked back into the alley, jingling a set of vintage motorcycle keys.
With Hermione safely out of Silas’ line of sight, Joe drew his weapon, checked the slide, and put it back in his outer pocket. Swinging his cane, he started whistling, and walking, not very fast, by any standards but his own. But moving, always moving.
He walked directly into the path of Silas, Horseman of the Apocalypse, and said, in a low, friendly voice, “Good evening. Have you seen my puppy? He’s lost. That storm, all that lightning, it must have scared him. I know he’s around here somewhere...you haven’t seen him, have you?”
Silas stopped in his tracks, and slowly lowered his ax as Joe nattered on until he ran out of breath. Silas tilted his head, and finally responded. “I had a dog once in Aleppo. He ran away, too. Unless Caspian ate him.” A look of distant consternation crossed his face, and the visceral urge for revenge trickled away. “What’s his name? Which way did he go?”
Joe pointed at the street that lead right back to the bridge, and away from MacLeod and Hermione, who had successfully started the sidecar and driven directly to the pier. Staggering under MacLeod’s weight, Hermione was more than fulfilling her part of the bargain.
“Gorgeous George of Glenfinnan. But we just call him GeeGee. He’s got dark brown hair,” Joe added helpfully, recapturing Silas’ full attention. “It curls a little when it’s freshly blow dried. Oh, dear, I just had him groomed. He’s rolled in something, I’m sure.”
“What kind of dog? Mine was a Pekingese. That’s what the trader said, before Kronos grew displeased with him. He came all the way from Tashkent, on the spice road.”
Completely ignoring the ax dangling from Silas’ hand, Joe managed to reply with a perfectly straight face.
“He’s a Scotty.”
1997
It was a bleak and raining Solstice night, almost a year later, when Joe met Hermione again. They greeted each other quietly at the door of Darius’ church. Joe had replaced the old bucket hat with a wide-brimmed model, pulled down low against the weather. He also carried a sack of votive candles. Hermione carried a waterproof bookbag, which she handed to Joe as well. “Thank you for trusting me with the book, Mr. Dawson. Every little bit helped turn the tide.”
“I admit I was worried about you.” Joe lingered before the door, despite the rain, checking the approaches. “I felt I should have done a lot more, after you helped me out of that pickle in Bordeaux. I still wonder, too, how much you know about my...career as an archivist.”
“Less than I want to know,” Hermione said honestly. “But more than you fear, I suspect.”
“I had to ask. Are you well? Back in school, I heard? Send me a graduation notice, and maybe I’ll show up with a recruiting pitch,” he said, not quite joking.
Startled at the idea of Joe Dawson touring Hogwarts, Hermione asked, “Just what do you know about my studies?”
“More than I want,” Joe said, carefully not summoning any millennial demons by name. “But a lot less than I need.”
“Does that have something to do with meeting on the Solstice, instead of All-Souls Day?”
“I’m not as observant as my mother brought me up to be,” Joe admitted, pausing to scan the streets again. He pushed open the church door for Hermione, but hesitated at the threshold. “I walked away from the formal rites. But there are times the smell of smoke from a new kindled flame makes me feel just a little bit more...connected.” Duncan’s birthday had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.
“Fire is elemental,” Hermione nodded, wiping her boots.
“On the other hand,” Joe added, cognizant he sounded more than a little pretentious, “Some of my respects go to a couple of crusty old pagans, and the Solstice seems more apt.”
“Did you know Rebecca dabbled in bardic magic? She said to be careful of you,” Hermione said doubtfully, hiding a smile.
“I don’t know about that,” Joe denied, with equal doubt and a wry grin. “I’m just a glorified librarian, with a guitar riff thrown in for seasoning, and about as magical as a number two pencil.”
“She said strong elementals are drawn to you.” Hermione looked down. “And you’re standing in a puddle. You need to let whoever you’re looking for out in the streets arrive in their own good time, while you come in out of the rain.”
“Yes, mother.”
Chastened by Hermione’s quelling look, Joe took off his hat and shook the rain off, spattering the threshold before entering the church. He took his weather gear off slowly, in no hurry to rush into the business that brought them together.
“Oh,” Hermione’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, but Joe noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your hair, it’s white...I’m sorry. It changed so fast. I still remember you from Shakespeare and Company. Gray streaks on dark. Distinguished.” Hermione stopped, embarrassed at her foolish comment.
“Five long years ago, when I was practically a teenager,” Joe smiled, teasing. “You should have seen me thirty years ago, in my senior year.” For a fleeting moment he was young again, conspiring with a winsome lass to sneak into a church at midnight.
“Maybe I should look it up,” Hermione said, intrigued. “Where did you go to school?”
“Everywhere. Chicago. Asia. The Alps. London. I never graduated. And I never stopped getting schooled. Even by you. Especially by you,” Joe declared, with only a touch of rue. “Adam told me that you winkled that old book of mine out of the shop right under my nose, when you were just a kid. It drove me around the bend, trying to figure out how Darius got ahold of it.”
Hermione winced. “And it’s overdue again,” she said, indicating the bookbag.
Joe looked down at the bag in his hand, thinking. “I should require a thesis, you’ve had it so long. But that’s a conversation for another day.” Joe glanced once more at the church door. “Well, I guess nobody else is coming, and that’s probably just as well.”
“Are you waiting for Adam?” Hermione asked. “Or your friend MacLeod who likes to jump off bridges?”
“They’ve left town, fighting their own demons,” Joe exhaled. His heart still hurt at their last devastating parting. “I’m leaving my demons outside Darius’ door, for now. We’d best get on with it before they start knocking.”
Together, they approached the altar. With simple ceremony, they lit one candle after another, and spoke briefly of the dead. Rebecca, Hermione’s mentor. Ian Bancroft, the most traditional of Watchers, who gambled his legacy on Joe. Albus Dumbledore, far more formidable than Joe dreamed. Mike, the musician, who walked away, too inexperienced to untangle creativity from destruction. Tonk.
Hermione’s tears began to fall at Tonk. Joe’s did, too, when he lit the candle for Richie, who trusted his friends to the death. So many had gone by the riverside since his first glimpse of Darius.
Hermione matched him, light by vigil light, as they honored the names of those long passed and freshly lost.
As he lit his own candle for Darius, Joe cleared his throat, hesitant, but Ian had made a request, once, long ago, and tradition demanded he follow through. The words to the old gospel tune first dropped into the silence like stones into a well, but they came easier, as his voice warmed, and Hermione tentatively joined in on the refrain.
In the end, they ran out of candles. But long through the night until sun’s return, Darius’ church danced with light.
END
Author: On the Qui Vive
Real Author Name: mackiedockie
Written for: morgynleri_fic
Crossover: Highlander, Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Joe Dawson, Ian Bancroft, Darius, Rebecca, Marcus Constantine, Silas, the Family Granger
Rating: Gen
Author's Notes: A slightly altered reality, set mostly in the past. Highlander veers, just a bit, into the Potterverse. Overlapping dates scrounged from various wikis around the net, with dubious accuracy. All malfeasances in text and manglings in non-English languages are mine. My beta deserves combat pay, and consideration for the Watcher version of the Croix de Guerre.
Summary: Darius and Joe Dawson weren’t precisely strangers, though they each took great pains to never precisely meet. Still, both had a weakness for books, and Shakespeare and Company lay just a short jaunt around the corner from the church. Friends will visit. Accidents will happen. And Darius had a reputation for making chess moves far more than one step ahead of the Game.
Part One
1979
“Did you bring pizza?” Ian demanded as he let Joe into his private sanctum overlooking Darius’ church, an unheated apartment that was miserable in winter, boiling in summer, but unmatched for range of view, particularly in autumn as the leaves fell, as they did now.
“Chicago-style it’s not, but it resembles pizza in it’s own Gallic way,” Joe wiped his feet as he entered Ian’s garret. “I’ve cleaned up the Indian and gotten it serviced. It’s put away for the winter in your storage locker.” Joe said quietly and handed over the keys. “How is Sarah? She seemed a little reserved at Don’s meeting the other night.”
“Sarah is fine. She’s a little worried about you, though, Joe.” Leaves rustled against the window sill. “I was sorry to hear the news about Liza Grant’s beheading,” Ian commiserated, getting straight to the point and pouring the good Scotch for a farewell toast.
Joe slumped in the armchair next to the window that overlooked the church. “It’s not like she was my girlfriend, right? Or even an acquaintance. Hell, she wasn’t even a nice lady.”
“I find there is something intimate in creating a chronicle over time,” Ian answered. “It binds us to our subjects.”
“It’s such a waste, you know? They live all that time, and so many of them seem to just...lose the point. It’s contagious.” Joe gestured out the window. “Sin or not, I envy you, watching Darius. Look at him, down there. Sermons, counseling, and today he’s doing a christening. He has purpose, you know? Taking people in, helping them out, maybe making them a little stronger and better inside.”
“Were you sneaking into some of his sermons when I wasn’t looking?” Ian asked. “You do need a girlfriend.”
“Just stealing lines from your book to put a little sunshine into your day.”
“Maybe I can brighten your day as well, Joe. Happy anniversary--it’s been ten years today since you walked out of the Marines and took my tale of a future in the Watchers on faith.” Ian handed Joe a wrapped present, about the length, width, and thickness of a book.
Joe inspected the present with a wary smile. “I was in dire need a job at the time. You were honest about the pittance, though. Thank God I finally paid off my part of the damage fee for the lab. Maybe now I can afford a girlfriend.”
“You fail to pull the wool over my eyes, apprentice mine. I’ve seen your expense reports from the Rue St. Denis.”
“I told you Liza Grant wasn’t a nice lady.” Joe’s innocent expression failed to convince. “Madame DeBarge sends her respects, by the way.”
“Touché.” Ian warmed a cockle or two on the memory of his own tutelage under Madame DeBarge. “Now. On to the business at hand. Open your anniversary present.”
Joe sat up and ripped into the paper. “A book! Quelle surprise!” Then he peered at the cover more closely, and leafed to a much-thumbed chapter with a nostalgic sigh. “Not just a book…the book -- Duncan MacLeod’s first grand tour of Europe.”
“Bit of a high-strung clotheshorse, to my tastes, but he sometimes impresses the colonials,” Ian affected disdain, just to needle Joe. “Darius likes him. Probably because he’s so easy to beat at chess.”
“According to this Watcher, Duncan prefers to fight his own duels rather than send out knights to fight for him,” Joe parried. “And that’s a primary resource.”
“Which accounts for his painful need for chess lessons,” Ian countered, glad to see his former student shed some of his blue mood. “Still, his early chronicle is a more pleasant tale than the sad resolution of Liza Grant’s tale.”
Joe looked up from the book. “Thanks for the reminder, that they aren’t all on a downward spiral. I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself,” he said, turning the pages with ingrained care. “I loved reading about this guy Duncan.”
“That’s good. Because he’s in town. And more to the point, because now he’s all yours.” Ian picked up the backpack full of books and dropped it next to the armchair. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted. You’re now a fully rated Senior Watcher and Chronicle Keeper. Duncan MacLeod’s day-to-day Watchers now report to you.”
“Damn. Now I’m going to have to straighten up and fly right,” Joe said, elated, clearly intending to do neither in the immediate future as he got up to pour another round. “Does this mean I get to find an apprentice, too? My own minion?”
“Heaven help the Watchers, but yes. It’s expected.” Ian struck a match and lit a taper out of habit as darkness fell and their celebration progressed The low candlelight didn’t interfere with his nightly observations, and drew less attention to the window.
“Who have you picked for your next apprentice?” Joe asked as he picked through the album collection and took command of the turntable. Ian appropriated his chair by the window so he could follow the comings and goings below as they talked. “The matter has been decided for me. Sarah is pregnant. I have fulfilled the family duty,” Ian laughed as he endured Joe’s unfettered congratulations, and redoubled toasts.
As their private celebration wound on, Ian still glanced out the window, out of incorruptible habit. The christening was over, and the happy parents were pausing to say their farewells to Darius and the attendees. Ian was shocked to see Marcus Constantine and Rebecca lingering on the stair. He’d nearly missed them!
At that moment, Rebecca and Marcus both looked up, staring directly at his garret window. Ian resisted the urge to duck. It was too dark in the room for them to possibly see his face or form. As Joe changed albums, Ian reached for his own rough notes on the church daily docket. Three Immortals gathered over one small child--Granger. It must be a very special christening, indeed. He’d have to note down the name for future research. Before he could make the entry, Joe handed him his glass, and he put down his pen, closing the notebook.
For the briefest moment, he tasted honey mead.
1992
It was a sultry spring vacation day in Paris when Hermione slipped away from her parents to visit a bookstore. At the age of twelve (going on thirteen!) she felt fully confident in navigating the Left Bank alone, even without magic.
The Grangers had gone on to visit their friend Darius at his church, just around the corner on the Rue Galande, and Hermione had promised to meet them in an hour. Old churches could be quite fine, in their way, but a bookstore was a bookstore, and almost as good as a proper library. Besides, she’d already read most of Darius’ tiny library the previous summer vacation. And she had never acquired a taste for his tea. It reminded her of a bad day at Potions class.
Hermione had assigned herself a summer project--searching muggle bookstores for lost magical treatises that might augment the Defense Against Dark Arts reading list. While the manager at Flourish and Botts in Diagon Alley had been less than optimistic that good bookstores existed in France, Mr. Winstanley at Winstanley’s Books and Stationery had especially recommended she stop at Shakespeare and Company.
And stop she did, gaping at the shelves that surrounded the entry. Books jubilantly tumbled on tables, escaping the bonds of mere alphabetism or Deweyosity. Books filled the window and fled out the door, tempting any impressionable and sensitive bibliophiles who had the luck to walk by. Shakespeare and Company promised to be a wonderful place to browse, even better, dowse, for strayed spell books.
She silenced the bell over the door with a word, and slipped through into the stacks. The bookstore clerk was in the back, busy fussing over one of the new CRT screens. They were almost like magic, some of those new computers. Hermione had heard they even communicated with each other over the telephone. That would be faster than owls, if not as secure. Not that they’d be allowed at Hogwarts. Magic was far more reliable.
Hermione pulled out her booklist, ruminating as she surreptitiously drew her wand. Would a simple keyword search suffice? Or would Boolean logic be more precise? Deciding on a title search to start, Hermione faced the store and said clearly, “Accio: 'Olde Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes… ”
There was a rumble from every corner of the store, and a shout, and a veritable bookalanche of volumes, tomes and folios risked damaging themselves in a fight to hover around her. Hermione was horrified. She’d never had such a response in a muggle bookshop. She glanced back at her list. “Oh, no...the quote is unclosed...” She’d inadvertently dowsed and drawn every book with ‘Bewitchments’ and ‘Charmes’ in their known text.
One book in particular nudged her hand like a found puppy--the age-darkened leather practically preened under her hand, and the leaves of the pages flipped back and forth to numerous examples of ‘Bezaubern’ and various declensions of ‘Vergessen’ and ‘Oblivio’.
“Oh, dear. You’re in German. And Latin.” Muggle Latin, not magical Latin. That meant more study. Quickly she pocketed the find and grounded the floating stock--just in time, as the shopkeeper was making his way out of the back, carefully limping through the scattered books like a scarred battleship through a flotilla of fluttering sailboats. His coat was not quite professorial, and not really businesslike. His dark hair and beard were streaked with grey, and strands fell down over his eyebrows when he dipped his head to stare down at her.
“It looks like a tornado ripped through here,” he said, leaning on his (nonmagical) cane, taking in the full effect before settling his whole attention upon her. “But I know that can’t be the case.” The clerk waited, his entire attention on her.
“Was that an earthquake?” she asked, intending to steer the conversation in any direction but the truth.
“Unlikely. Or the bell over the door would have rung,” the clerk observed. And waited. He evinced a certain amused and patient expectancy. “Perhaps…” he finally offered, almost as a lifeline, “...perhaps a shelf gave way, and the rest just fell like dominoes. I’m Joe, by the way.”
“Granger. Hermione Granger, sir,” she corrected. Hogwarts had left its stamp on her manners when addressing older academics. Hermione’s hand almost disappeared within his cupped palm, which was nearly as callused as Hagrid’s. “Let me help you put them back,” Hermione hurried to straighten the books, soon creating a series of neat piles around the table near the entrance. “Do you want them in any particular order?” she asked helpfully.
“I suspect some of them haven’t been in any particular order since the late Middle Ages,” Joe admitted. While they worked he pointed out particular favorites, and even made her laugh by pointing out some favorite passages from authors ranging from Herodotus to Abby Hoffman, and adding what must have been some outrageous fabrications of his own.
As she chased down the last upended volumes, he scrutinizing her groupings, and said, “This will do very well. I don’t think Don will notice a thing. Thank you for your help--bending isn’t my strong suit.”
“But you do better reaching the high shelves,” she acknowledged. Hermione had refrained from levitating books behind Joe’s back.
“You’ve got sharp eye for nesting the right books together, Hermione Granger. Let me know, if you ever need a job after you graduate.” He shook her hand with grave and gentle courtesy, then turned his attention to the piles of books again.
“There is a particular book I don’t see…” he said, and Hermione caught a note of concern. “It’s old. There’s an emblem stamped on the cover, that looks a little like this--” Joe rolled up his right sleeve, exposing a dark three-lobed tattoo.
“That must have been painful,” she said, studying the mark with fascination and trepidation. Hermione didn’t recognize the symbol from her rune studies, but it still burned a hole in her conscience, as it most certainly matched the mark on the cover of the book in her pocket.
“It’ll be in the back, no doubt,” Joe concluded, somewhat nettled. “I think you understand about books. Sometimes they get a hold on you, and you can’t let them go. Even though you know you should pass them on.”
Hermione understood about books very well. She was acutely conscious of the weight of the book tugging at her jacket and under her breath she muttered a minor spell of concealment. She itched to explore the book, but she couldn’t just walk out with it. That would be stealing.
Borrowing, on the other hand…she could always mail it back, anonymously. Like interlibrary loan. Gryffindor needed all the help they could get to get better grades on the Defense Against Dark Arts O.W.L. ”I have a friend who would like this store, quite a bit. Do you have a business card, Mr. …?”
“Dawson. Just call me Joe,” he insisted. “I’m just watching the place for a friend. I work in the other branch across the pond, as my friend Ian likes to say.” He handed her a card from the register that listed addresses in Paris and Seacouver. “Speaking of whom, if you have more questions, Ian and Don are coming down the street right now.” He held his finger to his lips and winked. “If you don’t tell him about the earthquake, I won’t mention the tornado. Thanks for your help.”
There was a sudden commotion as the bell rang loudly, heralding the entry of two cheerful men who looked even older and grayer than Joe, followed by a deferential younger man with dark hair and sharp eyes.
“Joe! Wait ‘til you get a look at the new chronicle Adam found! Methos is confirmed in Green River Washington, in the 1890’s!”
“Wyoming,” the young man objected, his eyes lighting on Hermione.
Joe made a cutting motion with his hand, rather like conductor halting a trio in mid chorus, and silence fell. “Hermione? This is the owner, Don Salzer. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around some other time. I hate to insult you by asking, but are your parents nearby? We have to close early for a business meeting.”
“They’re just around the corner at the Church, and I’m late, I should be going, thank you very much, Mr. Dawson, it was very nice to meet you…” Hermione babbled as she danced past the adults and out into the freedom of the street. She thought she felt the eyes of the youngest man following her all the way down the block, and had the strangest notion she had had a very close call.
Despite Hermione’s plan to return the book before it was missed, she felt bad about taking advantage of the co-proprietor. She made her way back to the church as fast as she could. Maybe she could puzzle out what she needed from the book, or the book needed from her, before her parents were done.
In fact, Darius might help her with the old fashioned text, too, before they had to leave. His library, though small, was quite old and eclectic, rather like Shakespeare’s. And in fact, he did seem quite delighted by her find, and had a tendency to nab it for himself at every opportunity during their stay.
Darius and Joe would probably get along just fine, she decided. Or they should. They were very much alike, cloistered in their lairs, showing off their treasures. She remembered that the old priest had let her look at the illuminations in his own collection when she was just a little girl, barely able to distinguish ancient calligraphy from ants.
It wasn’t until Hermione was well on her way to the French Alps with her parents when she realized the book was still sitting in Darius’ desk. Or on his shelf. Or had he been reading it near the chess set? Appalled at her forgetfulness, she dashed off a note explaining her mistake, and taking full responsibility, with the sincere hope it wouldn’t be too much of an annoyance to somehow find a way to put the book back where Joe might find it.
Hermione had faith he would take good care of it.
Darius, too, understood about books.
1993
The services for Rebecca at Darius’ church were attended by more Immortals than Paris had ever seen peacefully gathered in one place in recorded Watcher history. Joe had spent days in the Paris Archive, verifying (and covering up) the facts around her life, death and crystallomantic powers.
Marcus Constantine marshalled the orators as they arrived, and Amanda greeted the mourners, dressed in plain black, accented only by a single white stone pendant in honor of her teacher. Blades were not checked at the door, but all remained sheathed on the holy ground of the inner precinct. Seating arrangements were made with delicate diplomacy.
Watchers flocked from garret to gutter around Darius’ old church, though Ian Bancroft alone had official permission to step inside, a legacy of his decades watching the deceased priest. Since Rebecca’s watcher was also dead, slain by Luther before the duel, Ian had summoned Joe Dawson to accompany him, in no little part because he was the least likely Watcher to be assassinated by the principal mourners, given recent misunderstandings with Horton’s splinter sect.
Joe and Ian took their usual seats (in the shadows, in the back). Ian sat straight and silent, enduring, but no longer Joe’s touchstone for optimism and hope. Despite the crowd, the Immortals left a shell of empty chairs around the Watchers, isolating them from their shared grief. And so, there was still room next to Joe when a latecomer arrived and slipped into the last row.
Hermione was ruffled, and tear-stained, and still in fresh upset, as if she had only just heard the news. “Is it true, Mr. Dawson?” she asked, stricken. “Darius and Rebecca, both?” She did not ask who, or why, or how.
Joe reached out and gingerly drew her in. “I’m sorry, Hermione. It’s true. Best to listen, now, and celebrate her life.”
“Every summer--the two of them taught me so much. But there was so much more! And now it’s lost!”
Ian roused, catching Joe’s eye. They were attracting attention.
“Hush, and listen. Later, we’ll light them both a candle. And then we’ll go on.”
1996
Joe's cane snapped down on the uneven sidewalk. He was moving as fast as he ever did--which was not very fast, by any standards but his own. He’d been left behind, time after time, covertly chasing MacLeod and Cassandra across France. He’d even resorted to his least favorite (but most effective) disguise as an itinerant street performer (beat up guitar, bucket hat and all.) He’d even resurrected Ian’s old mothballed Indian sidecar to catch up on the roads, but on foot, he was still one step behind.
Swords clanged in the distance. Looking ahead towards the Bordeaux bridge where MacLeod was overmatched with Silas and Caspian, Joe didn't see an uneven cobble. Walking, that was slow. Falling, that was fast. Getting up, that was...problematic. He could hear swords clashing in the night over the water, and Silas, bellowing.
Joe combat crawled toward the wall that lined the river, and clawed his way up the parapet. A quickening knifed through the shadows of the night. Huge. Powerful. Strong enough to melt the cables on the bridge. Every street fixture within two blocks was sucked lightless.
And in the dark, in the ditch, he couldn’t see who won.
“Shitfire!” Even as he pulled himself erect, he caught a glimpse of a body falling from the bridge against the evil fireworks the quickening still spat. Dark hair. Dark clothes. MacLeod? Or Caspian? The quickening still snapped over the bridge, dire, ugly bolts that searched aimlessly for prey, It was not the wild, clean midnight lightning that Joe had seen struggling in Duncan’s soul for so many years.
On that intuitive wisp, more wish than evidence, Joe felt a spark of hope bloom in his heart. He searched the black waters below for a body, and was rewarded when a dark, sodden lump bumped against a small dock downstream. Silas bellowed again from the bridge, seeking revenge.
“Dammit, Mac. I wrote the last page in your chronicle once. I’m not doing it again,” Joe vowed. He let loose a few more Marine-grade epithets for extra punctuation, salting in gutter French to hang on to the shreds of his cover. Sadly, there was no one around to appreciate his savoir faire. Ian would have applauded.
“Then again, who’s fool enough to be running around in the middle of the night, watching your back?” Joe asked the wind. No one would have blamed him if he gave up field work, and quite a few who would cheer if he retired. Again. Inexplicably, many Watchers had foolishly envied the the empty prestige of watching MacLeod. Most were useless, too timid and traditional. Or too courageous. And dead.
Silas howled, marching downstream, now. The track he was taking on the riverwalk would lead right to MacLeod. Joe faced the path to the bridge, instinctively checking the load in his automatic.
The odds were that Duncan’s healing was kicking in, even now, despite the body being ungodly cold and wet. Joe didn’t want to think about his frame of mind after taking even a part of Caspian’s quickening. But given enough time to heal, Duncan would pull himself out and get away. Joe just had to do one thing to ensure his escape. Stall, for just a few precious minutes, the avatar of War, who had reliably been renouned during the Russian revolution for eating bullets for his continental breakfast.
“You and Jimi had it right, Ian. A man has to stick to his own standards. ’If six was nine.’,” he quoted, in backward apology to his mentor.
“If that is a spell, it isn’t working very well,” a woman’s voice floated from the deeper shadows across the avenue. “Lumos.”
A blue light appeared in the heart of the alley, and floated forward. Joe discerned a woman’s shape, and heard soft footsteps. “Cassandra?” he guessed, cautiously. They hadn’t parted friends, and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t meet again as foes. Getting caught between Silas and Cassandra wouldn’t look good on his resume. Or his tombstone.
“Um, no. Hermione. Hermione Granger. Rebecca told me that Cassandra had documentation issues in Prophecies and Portents, and that her scholarship was inconsistent. I normally try to avoid her. It’s really not my best subject.”
Taken aback, Joe observed the obvious. “You’re a lot taller than the last time we talked.”
Hermione lowered her light and came closer, peering at his mud streaked coat. “Mr. Dawson, are you all right?”
“What on earth are you doing here, Hermione?” Joe demanded, lowering the gun and slipping it into his pocket, a bit embarrassed at brandishing it about in front of a teenager.
“Looking for you. Shakespeare and Company was closed. That’s just wrong, you know.”
“There’s lots wrong in the world, Hermione. And we’re right in the middle of one of the biggest steaming piles of wrong you’ve ever seen. You need to get out of here.”
Hermione looked toward the bridge, making an impatient motion. Coincidentally, Silas dropped his ax and stumbled, landing in a pool of cold water. He sat there for rather longer than looked comfortable, with a puzzled expression on his face.
Hermione folded her arms and turned to Joe. “Adam was quite unhelpful in answering my questions. He sent me to find you.”
“Where did you see Adam?” Joe checked the alley behind Hermione, but Methos, for better or worse, did not appear. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for weeks. He’s running in very bad company. Don’t tell me you just run into him on the street?”
“Let’s just say I have a knack.” Hermione looked beyond Joe’s shoulder to the bridge, but Silas still appeared to be having difficulty in grasping his ax. “Listen, Joe, do you remember when you said you might have a job for me when I got out of school?”
‘I do remember, but If my count is right, you’re still a year away from graduating,” Joe objected, wondering about the surreal turn in the conversation, considering the distant but ominous sound of hobnailed boots sparking on cobbles as Silas kicked the street in frustration. “Are you all right? At the risk of sounding like a creepy old man, I can spot you some money to get home, if you’re short.”
He really wanted to ask, ‘What are you doing on the streets at night, alone? Do your parents know where you are?’ but something in her expression kept him from prodding.
“I don’t need money. I just needed to find you, and ask a favor.” Hermione nodded toward Silas, understandably distracted as Silas shed whatever clumsiness had come over him and triumphantly hoisted his weapon. “Adam also said to tell you the neighborhood was a very bad place to be caught sightseeing, and you should get out of here, fast.”
It was amazing how Methos could be so annoyingly correct without even deigning to show up. Unfortunately, Joe was a few steps too far away from his own transportation to make a clean getaway, and he now had Hermione to worry about. “I need to have a short conversation with this kindly gentleman approaching,” Joe said, checking his other pocket (the one without the gun) for a set of keys.
“That strikes me as counterproductive,” Hermione said, matching Joe’s tone. “He doesn’t look very kindly to me. Though looks can be deceiving. You look like a moon-touched busker in that hat.”
“Then I haven’t lost my sartorial touch.” Joe tossed her the keys. “I’ve got an old three-wheeled conveyance just inside the alley. It would make me happy if you warmed it up for a spin.”
“And what are you planning on doing, Joe?” Hermione asked, giving a disapproving glance toward the ax-wielding marauder. He was quite recovered from his fall and resuming his march downstream.
Joe considered his options. A quick glance downriver told him MacLeod was still just pulling himself out of the freezing water. There was no guarantee he still had a sword.
“Maybe it’s time to make love, not war,” Joe muttered.
“Do you always talk to yourself in a crisis?” Hermione tapped her foot.
Joe’s most ferocious scowl bounced, leaving her undaunted. He summoned his Marine voice, nodding toward the alley. “My friend down there needs a little help out of the river. I can’t manage the climb,” Joe lied, mostly. “Now scoot!”
“But how will you return the favor if you’re killed dead?” Hermione’s question was not rhetorical.
“Improvise. And prioritize. If you get him up the stairs, stuff him headfirst into that sidecar, and get him out of here, I’ll owe you anything I have. Anything you want.”
“Anything? Very well. I want a book. I’ll tell you later which one. Do not get killed, or I’ll summon your ghost.” Hermione put her hands on her hips, fuming, then stalked back into the alley, jingling a set of vintage motorcycle keys.
With Hermione safely out of Silas’ line of sight, Joe drew his weapon, checked the slide, and put it back in his outer pocket. Swinging his cane, he started whistling, and walking, not very fast, by any standards but his own. But moving, always moving.
He walked directly into the path of Silas, Horseman of the Apocalypse, and said, in a low, friendly voice, “Good evening. Have you seen my puppy? He’s lost. That storm, all that lightning, it must have scared him. I know he’s around here somewhere...you haven’t seen him, have you?”
Silas stopped in his tracks, and slowly lowered his ax as Joe nattered on until he ran out of breath. Silas tilted his head, and finally responded. “I had a dog once in Aleppo. He ran away, too. Unless Caspian ate him.” A look of distant consternation crossed his face, and the visceral urge for revenge trickled away. “What’s his name? Which way did he go?”
Joe pointed at the street that lead right back to the bridge, and away from MacLeod and Hermione, who had successfully started the sidecar and driven directly to the pier. Staggering under MacLeod’s weight, Hermione was more than fulfilling her part of the bargain.
“Gorgeous George of Glenfinnan. But we just call him GeeGee. He’s got dark brown hair,” Joe added helpfully, recapturing Silas’ full attention. “It curls a little when it’s freshly blow dried. Oh, dear, I just had him groomed. He’s rolled in something, I’m sure.”
“What kind of dog? Mine was a Pekingese. That’s what the trader said, before Kronos grew displeased with him. He came all the way from Tashkent, on the spice road.”
Completely ignoring the ax dangling from Silas’ hand, Joe managed to reply with a perfectly straight face.
“He’s a Scotty.”
1997
It was a bleak and raining Solstice night, almost a year later, when Joe met Hermione again. They greeted each other quietly at the door of Darius’ church. Joe had replaced the old bucket hat with a wide-brimmed model, pulled down low against the weather. He also carried a sack of votive candles. Hermione carried a waterproof bookbag, which she handed to Joe as well. “Thank you for trusting me with the book, Mr. Dawson. Every little bit helped turn the tide.”
“I admit I was worried about you.” Joe lingered before the door, despite the rain, checking the approaches. “I felt I should have done a lot more, after you helped me out of that pickle in Bordeaux. I still wonder, too, how much you know about my...career as an archivist.”
“Less than I want to know,” Hermione said honestly. “But more than you fear, I suspect.”
“I had to ask. Are you well? Back in school, I heard? Send me a graduation notice, and maybe I’ll show up with a recruiting pitch,” he said, not quite joking.
Startled at the idea of Joe Dawson touring Hogwarts, Hermione asked, “Just what do you know about my studies?”
“More than I want,” Joe said, carefully not summoning any millennial demons by name. “But a lot less than I need.”
“Does that have something to do with meeting on the Solstice, instead of All-Souls Day?”
“I’m not as observant as my mother brought me up to be,” Joe admitted, pausing to scan the streets again. He pushed open the church door for Hermione, but hesitated at the threshold. “I walked away from the formal rites. But there are times the smell of smoke from a new kindled flame makes me feel just a little bit more...connected.” Duncan’s birthday had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.
“Fire is elemental,” Hermione nodded, wiping her boots.
“On the other hand,” Joe added, cognizant he sounded more than a little pretentious, “Some of my respects go to a couple of crusty old pagans, and the Solstice seems more apt.”
“Did you know Rebecca dabbled in bardic magic? She said to be careful of you,” Hermione said doubtfully, hiding a smile.
“I don’t know about that,” Joe denied, with equal doubt and a wry grin. “I’m just a glorified librarian, with a guitar riff thrown in for seasoning, and about as magical as a number two pencil.”
“She said strong elementals are drawn to you.” Hermione looked down. “And you’re standing in a puddle. You need to let whoever you’re looking for out in the streets arrive in their own good time, while you come in out of the rain.”
“Yes, mother.”
Chastened by Hermione’s quelling look, Joe took off his hat and shook the rain off, spattering the threshold before entering the church. He took his weather gear off slowly, in no hurry to rush into the business that brought them together.
“Oh,” Hermione’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, but Joe noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your hair, it’s white...I’m sorry. It changed so fast. I still remember you from Shakespeare and Company. Gray streaks on dark. Distinguished.” Hermione stopped, embarrassed at her foolish comment.
“Five long years ago, when I was practically a teenager,” Joe smiled, teasing. “You should have seen me thirty years ago, in my senior year.” For a fleeting moment he was young again, conspiring with a winsome lass to sneak into a church at midnight.
“Maybe I should look it up,” Hermione said, intrigued. “Where did you go to school?”
“Everywhere. Chicago. Asia. The Alps. London. I never graduated. And I never stopped getting schooled. Even by you. Especially by you,” Joe declared, with only a touch of rue. “Adam told me that you winkled that old book of mine out of the shop right under my nose, when you were just a kid. It drove me around the bend, trying to figure out how Darius got ahold of it.”
Hermione winced. “And it’s overdue again,” she said, indicating the bookbag.
Joe looked down at the bag in his hand, thinking. “I should require a thesis, you’ve had it so long. But that’s a conversation for another day.” Joe glanced once more at the church door. “Well, I guess nobody else is coming, and that’s probably just as well.”
“Are you waiting for Adam?” Hermione asked. “Or your friend MacLeod who likes to jump off bridges?”
“They’ve left town, fighting their own demons,” Joe exhaled. His heart still hurt at their last devastating parting. “I’m leaving my demons outside Darius’ door, for now. We’d best get on with it before they start knocking.”
Together, they approached the altar. With simple ceremony, they lit one candle after another, and spoke briefly of the dead. Rebecca, Hermione’s mentor. Ian Bancroft, the most traditional of Watchers, who gambled his legacy on Joe. Albus Dumbledore, far more formidable than Joe dreamed. Mike, the musician, who walked away, too inexperienced to untangle creativity from destruction. Tonk.
Hermione’s tears began to fall at Tonk. Joe’s did, too, when he lit the candle for Richie, who trusted his friends to the death. So many had gone by the riverside since his first glimpse of Darius.
Hermione matched him, light by vigil light, as they honored the names of those long passed and freshly lost.
As he lit his own candle for Darius, Joe cleared his throat, hesitant, but Ian had made a request, once, long ago, and tradition demanded he follow through. The words to the old gospel tune first dropped into the silence like stones into a well, but they came easier, as his voice warmed, and Hermione tentatively joined in on the refrain.
In the end, they ran out of candles. But long through the night until sun’s return, Darius’ church danced with light.
END